Moon Embracing the Sun
by WeirdChocolateLover
Summary: [Set in a Joseon era-esque Fictional England] With shamans and visions interspersed in her life, Anne Boleyn grows up under different circumstances, with a loving family and a lively childhood. However, fate's hold on her remains firm, as she finds herself still destined to tread on the rugged path to the throne.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I am not particularly knowledgeable on the Tudor period. The only thing I know is that I love Anne Boleyn and therefore will create a story where she is the central figure. This story is based (as in everything) on the Korean Drama and novel 'Moon Embracing the Sun'. If you want spoilers, watch that.

This story will be set on a fictional England, a _Joseon era-esque_ England. The capital is where Whitehall Palace is located, it is surrounded by walls. Nobles have mansions inside the capital but they also have estates outside. For instance, the Boleyns' house inside the capital will be the Hever Mansion, but Hever Castle also exists outside the walls. I know mansion was first used in the 1800 but for the sake of this ill-conceived story, don't be too much of a pedant.

 **Do be warned that describing this story as historically inaccurate is a great understatement**. If you want a plain ole England setting, this is not the place to be. Stop worrying and enjoy it. If you can't feel free to exit.

Grammatical Errors.

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 **Chapter 1**

 _Beyond the Capital_

 _1st May 1501_

"Oh my goodness!"

Elizabeth hears her maidservant exclaim in utter surprise, consequently piquing her curiosity. The palanquin grinds into a halt, and the crackle of leaves punctuates the nervous shuffling of her companions. She supposes she should be alarmed— after all, a noblewoman's entourage aren't usually forced to a standstill on pain of torture. But Elizabeth prides herself on her ability to remain levelheaded, and she opens the palanquin window to bid her maidservant forward.

"What is it?" The girl's eyes are wide with profound terror, her face white as sheet and her thin body trembles openly.

"There's a woman, milady, s-she's covered in blood."

Elizabeth's heart skips a beat ... _bandits_ she guesses straightaway. Her hands move to encompass her protruding stomach. Her anxiety for her unborn child's safety gnaws at her, and she almost orders her people to move forward instantly, for fear that they become targets next. But Elizabeth's virtue—which her husband has always loved, but may kill her for now—keeps her from forsaking the woman who lays ahead of them, probably at death's door, simply because she was ill-fated.

Besides, the city walls are nearby. Surely, no bandit would dare harm them now with the royal guards in such a short distance.

She sighs, self-preservation has always been far in her list of priorities. And in the world of politics, it's a surefire way of getting disgraced. Perhaps her brother is right, she should've settled down with a nameless knight, although technically her husband was just that a few years ago. He just proved himself too exceptional to remain undistinguished, and Elizabeth would never have him in any other way.

Against her better judgement, she carefully walks out of the palanquin and dismisses the fervent protests of her maidservant. The bearers seem to think she's insane as well but are wisely keeping mum. She walks cautiously to the woman, and on a closer look her blood-soaked gown looks quite familiar. She ignores it though, in favor of checking the woman's pulse. She can feel a faint thrumming against her fingers, and when she tries to move the woman slightly, the woman's lids fly open and obsidian eyes stare at her with urgency.

"H-help me, please," she croaks.

If Elizabeth had any qualms before, she loses it all at the woman's palpable anguish. Her hair, in an undeniable state of disarray is matted with blood, sweat and dirt; her face is unrecognizable with grime, tears, and blood; and her filthy hands clutch Elizabeth's own, her hoarse throat spouting pleas and cries for help. Perhaps she should feel disgusted, the grime does feel unpleasant, but the unexpected concern for the unknown woman overrides everything else.

Elizabeth immediately orders her maidservant to aid her in assisting the woman to the palanquin.

"But, milady, surely the bearers can aid her instead." Elizabeth waves her off, however. Blood splatters on her bearers' garments will no doubt spell trouble for them. And she can't afford trouble, not when her husband's just starting out on his career.

They haul her successfully to the palanquin, and once they are seated comfortably, the bearers move forward without further prompting. The garments of her maidservant remains bloodless due to Elizabeth's careful directions, and she deems her fit to travel outside the palanquin, not that the transport could carry another person.

When they arrive at the entrance, where quite a number of royal guards are posted, they immediately demand her to step out for a thorough inspection, which they cannot afford.

To prevent any problems, her maidservant intercepts instantly, "Milady is heavy with child and cannot do so, and milord strictly instructed us to maintain her comfort."

The guards remain uncertain however, and Elizabeth decides to take matters into her own hands. She opens the palanquin window, and in her soft voice declares firmly, "My lord husband Wiltshire expects me."

The guards' hesitance dissipates immediately, just as Elizabeth assumed they would. Thomas Boleyn has become popular due to his recent elevation. Nowadays, it is no secret that the king greatly favors him.

"Clear the way for Lady Wiltshire!"

Elizabeth exhales in relief, and gives the terrified woman in front of her a comforting squeeze in the shoulder. "Do not worry, it'll be alright." And the woman's eyes shine with evident gratitude.

But the celebration seems to be cut short when one of the guards booms, "Halt!"

Elizabeth's forehead creases in confusion. _What could possibly be the problem now?_

"Blood! Why is there blood dripping from your palanquin?"

She looks down to see the blood pouring out of the woman's wounds and trickling down to the floor of the vehicle. Elizabeth stiffens in anxiety, hundreds of prospective scenarios rooted on the guards' discovery of their secret hurtles through her mind swiftly with one common denominator, they end rather unhappily for her. She can hear the guards' footsteps clearly, closing in.

But before they could forcefully open the palanquin, an idea occurs to her and she shrieks in pain.

"The baby! Something's wrong with the baby!"

As expected, the guards back off immediately.

"Milady!"

"Make haste bearers! Bring the lady Wiltshire to a physician!"

Just like that, the crisis is successfully averted and Elizabeth almost slumps in relief.

Jocunda watches the woman carefully. She's very beautiful, garbed in a fine gown—now stained with blood— with her healthy blonde hair perfectly-coiffed like a true courtier. She's quite shrewd and perceptive like an experienced noblewoman, but continuously proves herself to be an outlier by lacking one defining characteristic that all courtiers seemingly possess, she lacks the common drive for self-advancement.

The bearers are still in haste, oblivious to the lady's deception, but once they reach a deserted road the lady orders them to halt. She then gingerly walks out of the vehicle, and Jocunda knows this is as far as she can take her.

"Forgive me but I can only take you this far. Our mansion is nearby but my husband is with my brother entertaining their guests, and I cannot guarantee that they will not speak about this. I have the notion that you want your presence to be concealed. And I confess, I also don't want anything to mar my husband's image. Forgive me for being so selfish."

Jocunda stands before with what little strength she has, and she smiles, understanding the lady's plight.

"I understand completely. You seemed to love your husband."

The lady smiles fondly as if replaying the memory of her beloved, "Very much. He and my children are my world."

The lady caresses her stomach as if in a trance, and Jocunda smiles despite the strain of the day. It's a relief to realize that in their world, kindness still dwells on the heart of the wealthy, and that this privilege did not infect everyone with greed. Jocunda hopes infinitely that the lady's fortune would remain, and that she and her family may live their lives in peace and happiness.

As if to contradict her, however, a slew of images came unbidden.

 _There's a child, a precocious babe._

 _Dark hair and olive skin, and eyes ... eyes that captivates the soul, and smile ... smile that charms the heart, like_ ** _no one_** _can, ever._

 _The child ... a young woman adorned in splendid garments ... garbed in royal clothing._

 _She falls ... a grave._

 _A moon, and a desperate sun._

When Jocunda comes to her senses, there's a bag of coins sitting on her palms as the lady clasps their hands together, the muck and the blood making it extremely uncomfortable. But that does not deter Jocunda from finding reassurance in the gesture. The lady truly never ceases to amaze her, she acts as if she didn't help enough, and Jocunda prays she remains this way to pass it on to her children. Especially, her unborn child, whom peril mires the path she will take.

"I will pray that you'll remain safe and alive." The gentle lady says in earnest.

Jocunda smiles, the images ... they can never be rewritten. She doesn't understand what it means, and the images usually contain multiple meanings that one can never fully comprehend until it passes. She hopes the child will prevail against it.

But ... what better way to convey her deep-seated gratitude than for her to personally protect the child.

She who has an inkling of the future, she must do her best to ensure the child's wellbeing.

The ultimate promise.

"It's a girl, milady. A girl in the image of your husband."

The lady's visage breaks into a stunning smile. "A daughter? A daughter in Thomas' image? Oh, dear! I've always wanted a little girl with her father's dark hair and eyes. Oh my, how glorious!" She speaks in fervent happiness and squeezes Jocunda's hand once more, forgetting everything but the satisfaction of having her wish.

Then she falters slightly as if doubting the origin of Jocunda's knowledge. _Because how can she be so_ sure? Her eyes strays down Jocunda's clothing and she finds one particular suggestive mark that clears all her distrust.

"You're a court shaman." She states, and her smile comes back full-force, realizing that Jocunda's talents may as well solidify her proclamation of Elizabeth's unborn child. A _Thomas-like_ daughter, she giggles inwardly.

It is sudden when Elizabeth notices the stark juxtaposition of her overwhelming cheerfulness against the woman's solemn exterior.

The woman stands, forehead creasing in what looks to be consternation.

Consequently, a shiver wracks her body. She did not need any expensive education to infer from the woman's expression that something unpleasant lies on her daughter's future.

"W-what is it?" She flounders, dread lodging itself gradually in Elizabeth's gut.

The woman seems to hesitate, before she clutches Elizabeth's hands tighter, "Fear not. I shall protect her." She promises with no shadow of doubt, and instantly, Elizabeth exhales in relief. The woman gives her a pointed look, a once-over, before hobbling away from them like a _frightened_ but _willful_ cat.

Perhaps she shouldn't trust the words of a stranger, after all she can very well disregard the promise. But somehow the thought that out there, one woman is prepared to do anything to protect her baby is a thought that will comfort her for the rest of her life.

 **.**

 _Tower of London_

 _18th May 1501_

Elizabeth Barton rushes through the tower, all traces of good etiquette gone in an instant. When she hears about her most precious friend's arrest, horror seized her body causing her to faint. And when she finally recovers, her fellow shamans informed her of Jocunda's plight and sentence.

Tomorrow she is to be drawn and quartered for public viewing.

Tomorrow her only friend, half of her soul, is to be taken away from her forever.

Elizabeth feels sick. She knows in her heart that whatever Jocunda has been prosecuted for is no more than a fabricated lie. Jocunda must have seen something, something no one can afford to divulge and has therefore eliminated her to secure their disgusting lives. It is the life in court, a life Elizabeth has wished to leave. It was only because of Jocunda that she decided to carry on in the political minefield.

Jocunda who is in love with Richard, the king's bastard brother, and an ever persisting threat to his majesty's throne. Elizabeth knows it is hopeless now. From the start, Jocunda can never unsee what she has witnessed, and that as it may, has sealed her fate.

"Jocunda!" Elizabeth crouches down, placing her hands through the bars to hold her friend's bloodied arms. She drinks in the sight of her friend, and dies much more inside.

Jocunda's execution is still tomorrow but from the 30 lashes she has received earlier, she might as well be dead. Her fair skin is no more than a canvass for ugly bruises and wounds that marks herself as a traitor, and a mark of her loyalty to the king's bastard brother.

Elizabeth bits her lip in resignation.

Nothing can be done now.

"I warned you. You shouldn't have gone to him. You should have never given him your heart. Now, look what happens. For all of your foolish sacrifices, death is what he gives you in return." Her voice cracks, and she tightens her hold on Jocunda's wrists, though still mindful of her injuries. Jocunda smiles, as if she feels no pain. But from the occasional wincing and flinching, Elizabeth knows that she's only trying to condition her mind.

"I saw him, Liz. H-he fought bravely against the masked noble. I couldn't remember anything that I heard, only that I saw him freeze on the spot as if in disbelief. And that particular moment of vulnerability cost him his life. The sword cut his throat and blood spurted out as if it was a never-ending fountain. The air, oh the air, it smells like death. But no it wasn't the usual, it _didn't_ smell like the end, it smelled like the _beginning_."

Elizabeth closes her eyes in agony as her friend recalls her last moments with a man that has never been hers.

 _Beginning ... end_.

Shamans are known to talk nonsense, but she knows it is an omen and should not be taken lightly. Besides, Jocunda is an effective shaman, what she can feel and see is just a different face of the truth.

"I couldn't even say goodbye. Richard, he was so good to me as a child. I ... I failed him, Liz."

Elizabeth soothes her friend as she breaks down, tears streaming endlessly, perhaps reminiscent of the blood spurting from her love's throat. The Jocunda in front of her is different from before. It is clear that Richard's death had broken her. Although Elizabeth thinks that in some way, and as outrageous as it is, the knowledge of her impending death makes her whole. Because it ultimately means she can finally be with Richard.

She is sure of some things now. The traitors have moved, and the crown is in peril, caused by the treachery of those close to it.

"Did the king do it, Jocunda? Have you seen him personally or in your vision?" She asks, out of curiosity, perhaps.

Jocunda coughs, and shakes her head. "I have seen no vision of the king. But that is not important. I want you to listen to me carefully."

There's something insistent about Jocunda now, so different from the frail and dying woman that she really is and it is what compels Elizabeth to listen.

"The following years will be peaceful, the calm before the storm. And when the moon grows up and the sun is called to take over, only then will the events unfold. Yes, I understand it now ... star-crossed, fate's design. But first, I need to die. The first blow has already been dealt. The traitors have emerged. It's all up to them now."

Jocunda inhales raggedly, her time on earth is minimal, but she will not die today. Tomorrow ... tomorrow she shall die as a traitor in the eyes of the public.

Jocunda reaches towards Elizabeth, her friend is shaking. Angry tears springing from her eyes, eyes that speak of betrayal. It has always been the two of them, Jocunda and Elizabeth, the court shamans, the _honest_ court shamans. The ones who are not afraid to state their visions no matter what wrath they may incur as a result. But from tomorrow onward, only Elizabeth Barton will survive.

"And Elizabeth ..."

Elizabeth pats her hand softly, dismissing her ill feelings to provide comfort. Jocunda dies tomorrow, this is their last time together.

"What is it?"

"Take care of her. Take care of the child."

She furrows her eyebrows, "What child?"

"The moon, keep her safe."

In truth, she comprehends none of Jocunda's words, but fate usually works this way.

She knows she will understand in time.

She nods shakily, "I will, I promise."

It is a new duty born out of a promise. And Elizabeth intends to keep it no matter what.

 **.**

 _19th May 1501_

 _In front of the Tower of London_

She is in position. The ropes are tied tightly around her wrists and feet. And the horses—four strong horses are in place, ready to run towards their respective directions once spurred. The jeers and taunts of the people are loud, condemning her for the crimes she never committed. But she couldn't hear them, none of their insults can penetrate her now, and all she wants is to get this over with. There is no future for her. This will be her end. And as selfish as it may sound, she's glad it is her end. A world without Richard is a bleak world.

She smiles slightly, love's hold around her remains firm, even in the dawn of death.

They're preparing now, and she waits patiently for the signal. It is given, and her body lifts from the ground as her limbs are pulled from four different directions.

She stifles the urge to scream.

She will not let them bask in her pain, this will be her last act of defiance.

In the end, she fails, it is too much to bear. And she leaves the world with a chilling scream of agony from having her body brutally teared apart.

 **.**

 _19th May 1501_

 _Hever Mansion_

The cries of a newborn babe permeates the air, eliciting gasps of relief and cries of delight.

"It's a girl, milady."

The midwife carefully places the baby into her mother's eager embrace, and Elizabeth runs her eyes over the child's form. The shaman woman is right. Elizabeth's unborn child looks just like his father, albeit more feminine. She will grow up to be gorgeous, she's sure, but a beauty much more subtle than the standard English one. It will be the men's lost if they fail to recognize her daughter's pulchritude.

Oh and what foolish men they would be!

The child opens her eyes and Elizabeth's breath leaves her, "Such striking eyes," she whispers in pleasure. The baby's eyes are dark, inviting and curious. Like a ceaseless vortex, sucking you in with every second you look. She has never seen eyes like hooks to the soul. No doubt her baby daughter shall attract people like a fire would to a moth.

"My dearest," Thomas enters the birthing room with a proud smile. Elizabeth has told her beforehand of the shaman's prediction, and is elated at the prospect of having a special daughter in his image.

"Husband, come see her." Thomas moves closer, and the baby's eyes flick towards him. The eyes at first unnerves him, it's deep, like there's something it needs to convey, but then the eerie feeling evaporates.

Thomas places his pinky finger near her daughter, and she surprises him with a strong grip.

He wonders if he had become obsessed with sons, discarding his daughters and their importance, what kind of life would he be living in? What if the only significance he finds in his daughters is for them to bring honors to their family by being a mistress to the king? He shudders, and sends a prayer of gratefulness. He would hate himself very much if that had been the case. He was just glad that love had allowed him to act otherwise.

"A jewel like no other, what shall her name be?"

Elizabeth chuckles when the baby creases her nose as she taps it gently. "Anne. Anne Boleyn."

* * *

A/N: The Boleyns are good if you haven't noticed.

Elizabeth Barton is historically the 'Nun of Kent'.

Jocunda is an OC.

The bastard Richard is actually Richard III.

Stop comparing it to history and just enjoy it.

I honestly don't where this will go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 _Burial Site of the Unnamed_

 _19th May 1501_

The path was swallowed by wild grasses almost obscuring its whole form and pebbles of all sizes and shapes— some ragged, others smooth— dotted the whole ground making it more unpleasant to walk on but Elizabeth kept on trudging, unbothered by the state of her bare feet. She walked forward, swatting low branches and insects away from her face but mechanically as if she was in a trance. She's still garbed in her bloodstained gowns unable to change, returning to the castle suddenly felt too taxing and all day she remained in a stupor. After witnessing the barbaric way her friend was executed, seeing her limbs intact one moment and cut off in the next, she wondered if she would be able to leave all that.

It was her fault, really. Elizabeth didn't have a stomach for violence, she never was a spectator in public executions. For her, it was a cruel thing to do. To criticize a person, that may or may not be guilty on the execution platform and who were without a doubt relentlessly haunted by the shadow of death was just inhumane. If anything else, it should be a closed affair.

Her feet finally halted near a stack of common stones. It clearly was new and hurriedly arranged as if the one who lay beneath didn't deserve a proper burial. She crouched down, running her hands across the stones, and with her own palms, she set on arranging it better. It was a nameless grave, to mark the unworthiness of the dead person. But Elizabeth of all people knew the person underground wasn't unworthy.

She stayed there, encompassed by the sound of nature while her hands were at work. It felt like a proper goodbye, a sort of homage, albeit privately. A reassurance to her dead friend that despite the people's skewed perception of her, she had never once changed her own view. And that she would honor her name in every possible way.

When she looked up to the sky, after hours on end or perhaps was it only minutes? She saw an even bigger omen: the union of the moon and the sun. She knew it then that the best way to honor her deceased friend is to honor her promise and protect the moon, whomever that is.

She would feel it when the time comes.

 **.**

 _Whitehall Palace_

 _26th May 1501_

The palace was in mourning. The sudden assassination of the king's brother had cast a woeful atmosphere upon the court, and the lack of perpetrators have been putting everyone on edge. King Henry VII had locked himself in his room as a sign of his grief, causing the court's activities to dwindle. The place that had been the very root of exuberance and enjoyment had been reduced to a solemn setting, and the expensive ornaments that once ignited the laughter and energy of the courtiers had been nothing but bland and unnecessary.

The effects of Lord Richard's death to the king was very reasonable. After all, they were companions in childhood and strong comrades in the battlefield. The king recognized his brother's unwavering loyalty to his sovereign, and in return had rewarded him with titles and estates that made the king's supporters anxious. It was evident that King Henry's attention towards his half-brother was very unstrategic. If Lord Richard ever chose to betray his majesty and usurp the throne, it would be much easier with the wealth and power he acquired. After all, money had always been a powerful weapon to tilt the balance of favor.

All those worries were now unfounded, however. The Lord Richard's unanticipated death had quelled them quite effectively.

On the seventh day of the king's self-imposed confinement, Elizabeth of York, Queen of England was relegated to her apartments after her newest attempt to speak to the king was met with rigid refusal.

Elizabeth had been privy to the king's relationship with Lord Richard and had been astonished by the intensity of their bond. She had often wished her children would develop the same attachment, especially Prince Arthur and Prince Henry, although it was a slightly improbable wish considering the gap in their ages and the extreme differences of their nature.

Arthur, her eldest boy, was a gentle child, almost timid in disposition and distressingly prone to sickness. Elizabeth would often be disheartened by the repeated news of him falling ill. It was a miracle he even reached boyhood at all, let alone three and ten years. Nevertheless, he understood the severity of his responsibilities as the crown prince and was quite earnest in his preparations to be an outstanding sovereign. He excelled in his studies not because he was a prodigy, but because he was diligent. He was adept in commanding patience and was therefore seldom seen to be angry.

Hal, on the other hand, her sweet baby was an animated child, the antithesis to his brother. At the tender age of three, he was unafraid to project his anger whenever he felt particularly discontented. He acted imperiously as if he had realized the significance of his person, although Elizabeth would not be surprised if that was the case. Hal had been ... rather exceptional. He had shown qualities of a prodigy, something that Thomas Boleyn, the Chief Scholar could genuinely attest to.

She had been occupying herself by sewing an upper garment for Hal and simultaneously pondering over her children's situation when she had accidentally pricked her finger on the needle. She hissed reflexively, chiding herself mentally for being inattentive, before standing up to dab her finger on a handkerchief placed on the corner. Before she could walk any further than a foot though, a sudden bout of dizziness had overtaken her. Her ladies, sensitive to their mistress's state had immediately jumped unto her space, assisting her towards the bed to be comfortable.

She blinked at the familiar whirling sensation away and resisted the added urge to heave. She supposed she had been feeling unwell since last week but had been too caught up in the affairs of the court to really take heed of underlying meanings. At first, she assumed it was just the pressures and tensions of court, which she had never fully acclimated herself to and which had been quite insistent these past few days, but in hindsight, the symptoms were fairly overt.

"Tell me, dear Elyn, when did I last have my courses?" She asked although she was completely sure of the date. It was more of a rhetorical inquiry than an actual question.

Elyn Brent's eyes widened as if comprehending the implication behind the words, "It was a little over three months ago, Your Majesty."

The queen was a healthy woman, and although she'd been prone to irregularities in her courses that was seemingly influenced by the state of her mind or simply the degree of her anxiety, three months is too long a time, and she was convinced that the queen's symptoms were not mere coincidences. She'd been in her service far too long to doubt this.

"Should I send for the Royal Physician, Your Majesty?" The added lull of excitement to her tone had not gone unnoticed, and the exhilarated titters of the ladies in the background, that had been gone far too long, were renewed.

Elizabeth smiled in answer, "Yes, mistress Elyn, please do."

More than an hour later, all in court were now informed of the queen's call for the royal physician and were speculating as to why. Some were guessing about a new pregnancy, while others were dreading the announcement of an illness. If the queen was with child then perhaps she could finally rouse the king from his despondency, but if she was ill, then the courtiers might as well dress themselves forever in black.

In the east wing of the palace, where the spacious and opulent quarters of the queen mother was situated, a lady-in-waiting reported the events in the queen's apartments.

"Are you certain?" Margaret Beaufort, England's Queen Mother, asked with a definite lilt in her tone—one of glee. As expected, she had installed her own people on every apartment that she could to keep her well-informed. After all, it wouldn't bode well for her if she was ever caught off-guard. This way, no secrets would remain hidden from her.

The flustered lady nodded vigorously, "Yes, Your Majesty. The Royal Physician had confirmed it himself."

The laughter that came next caught all people in the vicinity unprepared. Outwardly, it was a laugh of relief and overwhelming happiness, but there was something undeniably ominous dancing in the beat and echoing throughout the great expanse of the room.

"Oh! Do leave us!" The lady—unnerved by the queen mother's laugh and presence—instantly complied with the queen mother's request, almost uncharacteristically running out of the room.

Once the room was devoid of any other spectators, making it more suitable for a private conversation, John Seymour raised an inquisitive eyebrow in response, "What has gotten you so happy? So Elizabeth of York is pregnant, I don't see its positive significance to our plan."

But the queen mother ignored him, infuriating him quite so in the process, and continued to laugh ceaselessly to her heart's desire. This was it. It seemed like fate itself was aligning with her plans. She'd be daft if she'd let this chance get away.

The queen's pregnancy would undoubtedly rouse her stupid son out of his exile and curtail his grief.

"Oh John, I have not the slightest idea how you have passed the Civil Service Examinations with that relatively diminutive brain of yours."

John Seymour gritted his teeth, "It was a little easier to bribe the Chief Scholar when he wasn't Thomas Boleyn."

Margaret smirked, further aggravating his annoyance. "Quite so, yes."

And awaiting no further response, she cleared her throat, flashing her irritated relative a wicked smile. "Just leave it in my hands. I will handle everything, for now."

 **.**

 _Whitehall Palace_

 _The Royal Noble Consort's Apartments_

 _21st October 1501_

The entirety of England was rejoicing. The Queen of England had given birth to a new princess, and the momentous occasion called for every display of positivity. There were no shortage of expressions of glee whether genuine or not, and it inundated the Royal Court. An utter antithesis to the previous events that took England by storm just mere months ago.

Despite the causes for celebration, Elizabeth Bruyn's apartments were governed with a tense silence. She wondered, somewhat dazed, why she was always reduced to these bouts of intense loneliness every time the queen fulfilled her duty to her husband and to her nation. And a bitter smile touched her lips. She was, in her heart, a faithful subject of the English king. However, above all, she was a staunch slave of her heart.

Elizabeth Bruyn, His Majesty's first ranked concubine, was just another woman who had fallen prey to the traitorous clutches of an unrequited love. And it tore her heart into diminutive pieces that could hardly be seen.

There was a sudden ruckus in front of her apartments, and she could hear her ladies voices urging the visitor to turn back. Still, the noise became much louder and the voices clearer.

"Her Grace wishes to be left alone, Lord Bruyn."

"I will not have her acting like a child. Elizabeth!"

Elizabeth gave up all pretenses of sleep. Her father was an irascible man, it would do her no good to ignite his temper further. She stood up from the bed, motioning one of her ladies to aid her in displaying herself as neatly as what little time permitted it possible.

"Father," her ladies were still braiding her hair when her Lord Father entered her chambers.

"Why aren't you at the feast?" His voice boomed with electrifying rage and Elizabeth flinched. She knew her father would be furious by her absence. By court protocol, she should be sitting at the table not far from the dais, smiling with glee at the arrival of a new princess in the nursery.

But she wasn't strong enough.

"Father I—"

Her father struck her across the face.

"I have no use for your excuses. If you would've performed well in the selection, you would've been the crown princess. Now that you're just his concubine, live with it. Everyone needs to see that you are happy and supportive even if you're not, or else he might take it out on Charles."

At the mention of her precious boy's name, Elizabeth grew cold with fear. Her father was right as always. What if the king decided to forbid Charles from going to court on Christmastide because he was displeased by Elizabeth's actions?

She nodded her head solemnly, wiping the tears from her eyes and ignoring the sting on her cheek.

"I shall prepare myself accordingly and proceed to the celebrations, father."

This was another instance of why she should just follow her father. He knew what's best.

He always did.

"And for goodness' sake, muster your strength. The king isn't at the feast yet nor is the queen and yet you're already falling apart. Have some sense girl!"

She drew a heavy breath. "Yes, father."

* * *

Whitehall Palace

The Royal Nursery

"Her Majesty, the Queen Mother." Once the herald announced her arrival, Margaret sauntered inside the room without a moment spared and gave a meaningful look towards her companion, the head of the court shamans.

"Scrutinize their faces and make no room for mistakes." She hissed, and the shaman bowed solemnly. The pitter-pat of tiny footsteps resounded through the room and very soon little Henry hastened towards her paying no heed to propriety.

"Grandmama!" He greeted cheerfully.

"Your Highness, you must not run it is unbecoming of your station." Their governess pleaded urgently in a whisper, eyes darting towards the queen mother nervously. She knew the prince's actions would reflect on her competence and if he was acting like a mere peasant's son, it would be on her head.

At any other time, Margaret would've had an array of scathing remarks directed towards the governess for her appalling ineffectiveness but as the woman's luck would've it, she had more pressing matters to attend to. She carefully picked the boy off the floor, shooting a disapproving stare at the governess, before cradling him close to her chest. Furtively, she turned his face towards her companion who observed the boy intently while Margaret addressed him.

"Oh my, how big you've grown Hal. What a mighty prince!" And a mighty prince he was—if his hefty weight and firmness was any indication. The boy was the picture of perfect health. His chubby cheeks blooming with a healthy flush, and a giggle escaped his lips. It was amazing how Elizabeth of York went from birthing a frail child, to years of barrenness and then to have a strong boy that England would no doubt be proud of to have as their king.

If only he was born first. Fate was so convoluted.

"Grandmama! Are you taking me to my little sister?"

She carded her hands through his hair, "Not yet, my dearest. Your mama is still tired and so is the little baby. You shall be there once the proper celebrations have started. For now, your papa is accompanying your mama and I will be accompanying you."

The child looked a little put off at the thought but swiftly regained his cheerfulness. "Did you bring me toys?"

Margaret raised an eyebrow, "When have I ever failed not to?"

She settled him down and watched him ran towards a servant carrying the promised toys deeper inside the room, already deeming her grandmother's company inferior to the company of toys. There was a soft reprimand from his governess and Margaret watched amused as Henry followed him at a more dignified pace.

Once the little boy disappeared, who was followed by her governess, she turned towards the first-born.

"Arthur, dearest, come greet this old woman."

The Prince of Wales kissed her on both cheeks and smiled softly. "You're hardly as old as you claim yourself to be, grandmama."

"Oh, dear, charming chap you are." She laughed, hugging the boy briefly and secretively eyeing her companion to repeat the action she performed to the younger on the older.

"I don't suppose you'd want some toys, do you?"

Arthur laughed reservedly. "No, grandmama. I shall be perfectly content with your company."

He raised his left hand, offering his assistance in walking inside.

She squeezed his hand comfortingly, "You've grown quite well, Arthur. Chivalrous, even-tempered and intelligent, England is honored to have you as a prince."

He smiled albeit a smaller one, "Too bad, this prince does not offer stability for England. Frail, weak and sickly, I'm not the best for this country."

The queen mother felt a pang at the boy's sincere words. Indeed, Arthur and Henry were two different people. Margaret knew Henry would be better as king, but she was under no delusions that he would be a kind one like Arthur could be.

Whereas Arthur would rule fairly, Henry would bring more security.

"Henry would be a good king. Yes, he is brash and his sense of self-importance might evolve into conceit but he is passionate grandmama. If one guides him well, he will flourish, even more so than me."

The atmosphere around them turned more solemn. "You sound as if you won't rule. Arthur, you are the Prince of Wales, you will reign as king and Henry as the Duke of York will aid you in every way."

Arthur grasped both of her hands in a tighter hold. "We will see, grandmama. Shall we go?"

Margaret felt the knot in her chest loosening as the rigid atmosphere gradually relaxed, "Go on first and supervise your brother. Only God knows what trouble he is causing your governess this very instant.

In a much-uplifted mood, Arthur obeyed Margaret and left.

She wasted no more time, "What did you see?"

The court shaman looked her in the eye, "I see the same, Your Majesty. The Duke of York has the mark of the sun, he will be king."

Margaret felt his stomach drop, "And Arthur?" She asked urgently.

The shaman evaded her insistent eyes, choosing to look below. "A few years more is all he has."

She sighed fingering the jewel on her neck, "Then we must make his few years remarkable."

A silence descended upon them that was only broken by the shaman's serious question.

"Your Majesty, how about your other grandson?"

The queen mother closed her eyes. _Yes, the royal bastard_.

The boy who was a product of her wrong maneuver.

Elizabeth of York had 5 consecutive miscarriages, the queen mother had been convinced that she wouldn't be able to carry a healthy child again. Margaret had pushed for her son to take a concubine. She had chosen Elizabeth Bruyn, the girl, after all, had survived all three stages of the selection and almost became the queen until Elizabeth of York proved to be a more splendid choice.

But Henry was obstinate, he refused to do so. Until Margaret had all the councilors to side with her and Arthur, the only living prince was almost taken away by another sickness.

Charles, the poor boy was set to be legitimized. But shortly after his birth, the queen unexpectedly gave England a robust son and Charles would-be prince had remained a bastard.

It turned out that the shaman she had consulted was a fraud and was only able to enter court because she was manipulating Elizabeth Barton—a talented shaman who was presently stuck in the arms of grief.

If she had any choice, she'd have chosen that girl to accompany her instead of this woman, the head shaman certainly wasn't as powerful as the one who was described as the 'Nun of Kent'. But she was playing her cards carefully.

A week after the shaman's execution, her close friend as Margaret was told, this Elizabeth Barton hadn't been able to escape any charges after a series of investigations. Margaret scoffed at the so-called 'investigation', it certainly was nothing more than the nobles' mindless accusations. She'd bet all her fortune that those men knew nothing and were only prosecuting people and had marked it as progress to save their own necks.

She would let the girl rot in grief in the tower. And then she would save her and exploit her abilities to her own advantage.

After that fatal miscalculation, Margaret had been treading on eggshells. Her son was devoted to his queen and Margaret had pushed him towards infidelity, therefore, making her position precarious in court.

But she was a better player now.

"Leave the boy, he missed his chance to be a royal prince. He'd never be king."

Or so she thought.

* * *

errors galore (I didn't re-read this, too troublesome) I'm young, inexperienced and a terrible writer. Thank you for pushing through despite the mistakes.

As for the question by AllegoriesinMediasRes, I'm actually writing this on a whim. I have no rigid structure or plan to follow through so let's just watch and see.

The Joseon era elements are placed randomly. I actually hated writing this. Setting up the foundation is too tiresome, I just want to write little Anne but this needs to be placed.


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